


Perpetual Motion

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Hand Kink, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski’s hands are obscene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perpetual Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Because [this gif](http://agoodsoldierandnothingelse.tumblr.com/post/40797722471/eriizabeto-i-am-not-uncomfortable-admitting) demanded porn.

Stiles Stilinski’s hands are obscene. They have broad palms, long, thin fingers, and a kind of grace the rest of his body lacks. 

Sometimes when Stiles begins to babble, Derek tunes him out and watches his fingers as they dance through the air in some semblance of whatever point Stiles is attempting to convey. They are hypnotizing, alluring, and strangely provocative - completely at odds with the rest of the spastic, hyperactive boy. Derek’s never found Stiles conventionally attractive, but his hands...his hands are erotic. 

He imagines fellating each finger, sucking on the digits like the main event rather than the pre-show entertainment. He wants lick the veins on the back of his hand, savoring the salty satin of Stiles’ skin. He imagines kissing each knuckle reverently while massaging the flesh of his palm --

“Derek?” 

Derek snaps his eyes from Stiles’ hands to his face and feels a hot flush creep up his neck. He doesn’t usually tune Stiles out so thoroughly but he hasn’t had a full night’s rest in weeks. The corner of Stiles’ bed where he’s perched is soft and comfortable, and he can feel exhaustion fraying the edges of his control. 

Stiles’ narrows his eyes and Derek sees a question in his expression. He schools his face into a frown and gives Stiles a rote glare. Stiles responds in kind, as Derek knew he would, and the familiar dance of it all distracts him from Derek’s initial distraction. 

“Look,” he snaps, and Derek relishes the spark in his eyes and scent he gives off as he gets worked up. “I’m not monologuing for my health. I’m filling you in because I’m the very soul of generosity and you need to know what Allison and I found out about the new group of hunters creepin’ around. I mean, I know going into a situation clueless and claws a wavin’ is sort of your schtick, but the least you could do is pretend to pay attention.”

Derek shakes off his exhaustion and stands, easily falling into his familiar role of antagonist. “I’d be able to pay attention to you if you weren’t flailing your hands about like Johnny Cage after a week-long bender. I can’t help but fear for my safety when you go off on a tangent.” 

Stiles’ eyes widen before he checks his expression into something speculative and accusing, but nothing hides the brilliant red painting his cheeks. Derek has to swallow before he gives into the impulse to lean forward to see if the flush burns his lips as much as it burns Stiles’ skin. 

“My hands.” Stiles holds up his hands and waves them in front of Derek’s face. “You were paying attention to my hands?” He takes a step closer, and Derek suddenly realizes that he’s lost the position of predator. He can barely hear the sound of Stiles’ heart beneath the thundering of his own. “You like my hands,” Stiles accuses. His expression is wondering and Derek has no idea how he fell down this rabbit hole.

Derek’s breath catches as Stiles, emboldened, places his hands on his chest. He feels the heat from Stiles’ palms soak through the thin fabric of his undershirt and the pressure of his fingers, indulgent and intent, pressing into his pectorals. He looks up from the hands on his chest to Stiles’ face and meets his eyes. “I,” He mutters, not sure what he’s supposed to say. Their familiar roles aren’t scripted for moments like this and Derek doesn’t know his line. 

Stiles pushes Derek back onto the bed with an embarrassingly small measure of pressure and moves to straddle his thighs. He is a tree that’s been felled with a whisper of breeze. The honey-brown of Stiles’ eyes looks molten in the wan light and his pupils are dilated. Derek doesn’t need a mirror to know that he must look the same. 

Stiles slides his hands slowly up Derek’s chest, up his shoulders, until they wrap warm around the base of his neck. He feels one of Stiles’ thumbs come to rest over his pulse and watches Stiles’ eyes widen with surprise. 

“I like your hands,” Derek admits. He’s surprised by the wrecked, quaking sound of his own voice, and he’s shocked to find that he’s trembling. He still can’t grasp how a routine info-swap has spun so wildly out of his control. He catches the flicker of Stiles’ tongue wetting his lips and Derek swallows, thick with anticipation.

He watches something akin to resolve flash across Stiles’ face before he darts forward and fastens his lips to Derek’s. The kiss is reckless, uncoordinated, and as unpredictable as the motion of his dancing fingers. Derek bracket’s Stiles’ hips and arches up, shamelessly seeking out the heat of Stiles’ groin. They’re both hard and Derek feels the reverberation of a low moan in Stiles throat before he hears it. 

“Derek.” Stiles cants his hips forward and hot friction dangles his control like a taunt in front of his wolf. His fingers tingle with the desire to grow claws and he squeezes Stiles’ waist tighter and ruts their hips together. 

The scent of their mingling arousal is a blanket covering him, dulling everything that isn’t the hot, lithe man on top of him. Stiles’ fingers graze through Derek’s hair, and he answers a rough tug by nipping at Stiles’ lower lip. He imagines he can feel Stiles’ pulse through his lips - hot, heavy, alive - racing because of him. 

The needy, breathy noises Stiles makes as his tongue reads Derek’s mouth arouses him more than the insistent erection at rubbing against his own. Derek slides his right hand to the front of Stiles’ jeans and pops the button with his thumb and slides the zipper down. Derek moans a question into Stiles’ mouth.

The answering sound is either a yes or a long, drawn out hiss, but the way he thrusts his groin into Derek’s hand is unmistakable. He slides his palm into the opening of his pants and grips Stiles’ erection through his cotton y-fronts. 

Derek’s never touched another man intimately, and he finds it surreal to feel Stiles’ pulse in his dick in cadence with the echoing thump in his ear. It’s a discovery he likes, and the faster Derek slides his fist up and down, the louder and crazier Stiles’ heartbeat gets. 

“Derek.”

Stiles’ arms are shaking and he’s near breathless against Derek’s lips, their kiss abandoned to an uncoordinated mashing of lips. Derek squeezes the base of Stiles’ cock, eliciting a loud, keening whine. He uses the hand that isn’t working Stiles’ erection to bring one of Stiles’ hands to his lips. He draws two of those long, elegant fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and sucking them deep as he can.

Stiles’ nearly collapses on Derek’s chest. He buries his face in the crook of Derek’s neck and bites down hard on the juncture of skin there. The sharp pain goes straight to his groin and his jeans get uncomfortable. His chest tightens with affection and he feels raw and achey with want, soaking up everything Stiles gives him.

His dick gets even harder in Derek’s hand, and he can recognize the way it throbs, signaling his impending orgasm. “Derek.” 

The hot breath at Derek’s ear makes him shiver. A loud moan hurts his eardrum, and a familiar wetness dampens Stiles’ briefs. “Derek!”

“ _Derek, wake up!_ ” 

Derek blinks. The light of Stiles bedroom is momentarily blinding as his eyes adjusted. It takes a moment for him to realize that he fell asleep on Stiles’ bed. 

“Wow, Sleeping Beauty, you were really out, weren’t you? I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last few minutes.” Stiles is seated across from him in his desk chair, looking at Derek with an unfamiliar expression of fondness and amusement.

Shame and embarrassment fuel his frown. He attempts to surreptitiously adjust his jeans as he sits up and crosses his legs. He has never been more grateful that Stiles wasn’t a wolf and couldn’t pick up on the stench Derek’s arousal. 

“Would you mind repeating that last sentence?” Derek gives himself a mental pat on the back for managing to sound normal.

Stiles’ face still looks amused, but he nods and continues. “I said the hunters are most likely going to be rallying in Shasta, by the border, and bringing down some reinforcements from around Grants Pass. Allison thinks that --” 

Derek tunes him out again, though this time it isn’t because of lewd fantasies about frotting on the bed. He doesn’t remember a single word of that and wonders not only when he fell asleep, but how. He knows better than to lower his guard in front of people -- especially people who aren’t a member of his pack. He had broken one of his cardinal rules: Never leave yourself defenseless.

A niggling voice in the back of his mind whispers that he knows precisely why he feels comfortable enough in Stiles’ presence to let his guard down, but he quickly squashes that thought.

When he refocuses on Stiles he realizes that he’s being examined. Stiles expression is open with confusion and concern. The look is gentle and it makes Derek want to lash out and reestablish the status quo of Alpha werewolf and puny human. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, we don’t have to go over this right now. Allison doesn’t expect them to do anything for another few days or so.” 

“Thanks, Doctor, but I’m fine,” Derek snaps. It’s sounds like a pathetic attempt at distraction even to his own ears, and he’s not surprised that Stiles doesn’t rise to the bait like he had earlier. Derek stands in a last ditch effort to regain the balance of power.

Stiles also stands, but stays next to his desk. He squeezes his palms at his sides and Derek recognizes the motion of Stiles steeling himself before an action. His heartbeat is wild in Derek’s ears, but he looks unusually calm, so Derek’s not sure what he’s psyching himself up for. 

“Look, I mean. I know we’re not, uh, you know. Friends. But you look exhausted. And abandoned factory lofts - though super cool to look at - probably don’t make the most comfortable places to sleep. Do you maybe wanna crash here until my dad gets home?”

Derek makes a valiant effort to rally anger at Stiles - at himself - for being seen as weak, but is instead floored by the unexpected kindness. Warmth that he hasn’t experienced since long before Laura’s death floods his chest and he misses this feeling. He knows Stiles doesn’t actually care - not the way Laura did - but for a moment, it’s nice to pretend. 

He only wishes he could say ‘Yes.’

“Thanks, but Isaac and Boyd...” He leaves the sentence to hang. 

“Right, of course. Just,” Stiles rubs the back of his head and looks at a corner of the room that Derek knows holds nothing of interest. “If you ever need a place.” He clears his throat. “I just thought I’d throw that out there.” 

Derek allows a small smile to touch his lips. He reaches out and bridges more than the gap between them when he squeezes the juncture between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. “I appreciate it.” 

Stiles’ eyes still can’t meet his own, but with the flush painting his cheekbones, they don’t need to for Derek to know that Stiles understands. He watches his adam’s apple bob as Stiles swallows and nods. “Good! Then. I’ll leave you to it.” He motions to the window Derek’s standing next to and finally meets his eyes. “If you stop by tomorrow, I’ll finish briefing you.” 

Derek nods and slips out the window. As he runs back to his loft he allows himself to feel the strange peace Stiles offered before he left. For the first time since returning to Beacon Hills, Derek welcomes the shred of warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [cornmouse](http://cornmouse.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


End file.
